Spockchick's Crack Bingo
by Spockchick
Summary: The lovely Anodyna at Live Journal has given out crack bingo cards. Five stories make a line. I will be tackling gems such as: crew turned to animals, amnesia, replicator malfunction and, avatars. No time limit so may be slow to update.
1. Fireman Spock

A/N. This was inspired by all the times TOS Jim and Spock rescue each other from mortal peril while incapacitated, usually with a fireman's lift. Apologies to Kingsley Amis for my description of Kirk's hangover. Crack!Bingo prompt: Amnesia. As always, shout-out to my lovely beta, SpockLovesCats. I tweak, mistakes are my own.

**Fireman Spock**

Collar straight? Check. Jacket hem lying flat? Check. Medals? Check. Expression of authoritative, educated interest plastered onto face? Check.

James T. Kirk used to enjoy these diplomatic functions on board the _Enterprise_ but good grief, things were just getting ridiculous. During the previous reception Spock's surprise father had been accused of murder, suffered two cardiac arrests and underwent open-heart surgery. Jim was stabbed by a mad Andorian who turned out to be an Orion - a long and involved story about control of the galaxy - and Spock was pumped full of untested blood cell stimulant, and subjected to his mother's powerful right hand_._ That was quite enough for one evening, thank you very much.

McCoy had already made his excuses and left. He had more sense. No doubt he would be holed up with Scotty and Uhura and a whiskey bottle of either Tennessee or Aberdonian heritage, or more likely, both.

As the mourners - whoops, reception goers - left, a kindly Saurian aide winked at him and gestured beneath his voluminous silky cloak - they always wore garments that made the Captain glad there were no naked flames on the _Enterprise_. A hip-flask was extracted and he whispered to the Captain, "A last shot of Saurian Brandy, sir? It is a particularly specialist vintage."

Jim carried out one final baleful surveillance of the room, disappointed at the efficiency of the _Enterprise _catering staff, and their ability to whip away half-empties and food remains by the very stroke of any party's official end. He must speak to them; _it's not over 'till it's over._

"Why not, I'll have a nightcap then head off to bed, thank you Mister Okeg." The Captain and the reptilian aide sat in quiet contemplation sharing the flask until Kirk decided he was beginning to feel a little drunk. Not wishing to appear intoxicated in front of an officer of lower rank he made his excuses and left, swiftly. In the turbo-lift he swayed, glad for the support of the hand-holds. His walk as he approached his quarters became more pronounced, nay exaggerated, as he tried not to veer from one side of the corridor to the other.

_Damn, this feels like I am on a real ship, and it's a rough sea._

_Buuuuurp!_

_Was that me?_

Just barely managing to get to his door he punched in the door-key only to be greeted by the computer. "Door key sequence incorrect. Please try again." He tried again. The computer repeated her words. He tried again, and again.

_Lord, I am drunk-Bones is going to kill me. What will I do now? God I'm starving. I'll go to the mess and get some rations._

A tiny portion of the Captain's brain was not surprised when he found that his legs no longer worked. In abject defeat, he rolled round so his back was to the door of his quarters, and slid down like a Denebian Slime Devil thrown at a wall, legs sticking straight out in front.

_Are those my feet?_

Minutes, or possibly hours later the Captain hiccupped himself awake, jerked his head up and used his sleeve to wipe a slovenly trail of drool from his chin.

_Weird kind of Saurian Brandy, making your body drunk from the waist down. I hope no crewmembers come by, I'll just pretend I'm ill-ate something—no, that might cause a panic. What was I thinking about there? Oh well, mustn't have been important. _

Just as he was drifting off again, he heard distant footsteps.

_Oh, for the love of Gorn, please don't come this way._

The Captain tried to flatten his body against the door, which was in an alcove caused by a bulkhead. His boots could still be seen, but the Ship's corridors were on night time, so the dim light helped to conceal his traitorous limbs in shadow. A man's voice was talking in a low register.

_Spock. Oh please, not him._

"I assure you, Lieutenant, the chances of anyone coming down this corridor in the next hour are 157.2 to one. We are perfectly safe."

Kirk's interest was piqued. He pushed his head forward by inches so he could just see up the corridor.

Spock stood at the junction of two passageways in his customary stance. The person he was talking to was, maddeningly, around the corner and out of sight. "No one will see you enter my quarters, and you may leave in the early morning."

_What? The First Officer arranging a tryst? As Spock would say, "Highly irregular." I must be even drunker than I look, and I'm sure I look, as Scotty says, "stoshus and pie-eyed." _

_Mmm, pie. _

_Where am I again?_

Spock's rich tones brought Jim back to his surroundings.

"Lieutenant, must I pick you up and carry you? I can assure you once we have reached our destination you will be severely and _thoroughly _punished for your insubordination. I have many inventive methods of chastisement at my disposal."

_What? Kinky bastard. I knew it. It's always the ones with a stick up the ass. Who's the lucky girl. Might not be a girl? Who knows with Spock?_

The First Officer stepped towards the unseen person. Kirk could only see one long blue-clad arm stretched along the wall, its hand nonchalantly curled around the edge. There were some faint rustling sounds, followed by a low female moan that would have caused stirrings, had the lower half of Kirk been connected to his brain in any way. Spock stepped further towards the hidden woman and there was a shocked squeak, preceding a peal of sparkling giggles.

_I know that laugh._

Kirk was astounded to see Spock emerge, facing a quarter-side on to the Captain, with a red-uniformed officer over his shoulder in a fireman's lift. Her luscious round bottom was displayed to wondrous, maximum advantage. She began to protest, kicking her legs and struggling ineffectually against his iron Vulcan grip. "Put me down, you brute!" She was laughing the whole time.

"Be silent woman! Or we shall be discovered."

"Make me."

_I know that woman, it's… it's…UHURA!_

Jim's stomach dropped worse than it had in that turbo lift malfunction during the Christmas party lift-cramming competition. Scotty had given them all one hell of a dressing-down, lined up like naughty children.

_Oh hell. Please don't see me, please don't see me._

Feeling like an intruder, but also completely unable to tear his eyes away, Kirk witnessed an event which, had he placed a bet on it, would have won him enough credits to retire on Risa for the rest of his unnatural life. Spock used his free hand to grab hold of the fabric of the Lieutenant's uniform shorts and pushed them roughly aside. He turned his head away from Jim's direction and placed a firm, but playful bite on Uhura's ass-cheek.

"The next one will not be so gentle." Spock's voice had a teasing rasp to it that meant business.

"Yes Commander." whispered his captive in an alluring way that caused Jim to think wildly inappropriate thoughts about his Communications Officer. He wished to Gorn the brandy had also rendered him deaf and blind and he closed his eyes tight, like a man in a bad dream hoping to wake up. When he opened them again the corridors were empty.

_Mmm … lovely, juicy, round, red apple. Take a big bite ... mmm. Why did I think that. I'm hungry. I'm hungry. Where am I? _

_Oh! Are those my feet?_

_

* * *

_

Jim was almost disappointed to be alive. Ship's daylight penetrated his eyelids, searing his eyeballs with a laser's efficiency. He lay crumpled and sweat-slicked on a bio-bed like the newly-ejected putrid stomach contents of a dyspeptic, disgruntled whale. The pounding in his head made the walls of the sickbay pulse like a drum skin. His mouth had evidently been the toilet of a baby tribble, and then its coffin. Some time in the early morning he appeared to have endured at least ten bouts of wrestling, and been efficiently done over by the Cardassian secret police. In short, if someone had given him a phaser, he might have put himself out of his own misery. Nurse Chapel bustled over to him, infuriatingly cheerful.

"Well, how are we this morning?"

_Why do they always say we? It's so annoying._

Jim offered a weak smile, he was sure he looked like a grinning death's head. The nurse continued.

"People never say 'specialist vintage,' do they? It's always 'a fine vintage,' or the year."

_Where in Terra was she going with this?_

"_Specialist _vintage is Saurian code for 'spiked'. With delta 9-trans-quatrohydrocannabinol, or Delta Nine-Four as they used to call it, before it became illegal in _forty federation areas_. And, of course, as Captain, you will have read the regulations about accepting 'under the counter' food or drink." The nurse was as stern as he had ever heard her. "Never mind, you'll live. Do you remember anything, sir?"

Jim's mouth opened, but it was a while before his brain caught up and he lay catching flies for some time. "I was at the reception, that's it."

"Then nothing? Nothing at all?"

"No, it's a complete blank. How, ah, how did I get here?"

"Mister Spock brought you at about 0500 hours. He found you slumped outside your quarters. I got quite a surprise-he just appeared with you over his shoulder in a fireman's lift. He's very strong." The nurse's eyes took on a far-away look. Jim coughed. A fluttering thought about a fireman's lift stirred in the back of his mind, but he had not the mental net to catch it, and it flew away forever.

"Ah well, sir, it's a good job it was just me and Doctor M'Benga. Doctor McCoy would never have let you forget this, especially since you were so entertaining in your sleep."

"Uh?" Jim's stomach tightened.

"It's all right sir, just the effects of the drug. Gorn knows what was going through your mind, but you kept tossing and turning and saying…" The nurse tailed off, obviously suppressing laughter.

"Well, _what_, Nurse? You can't just leave it there!"

Chapel took a deep, steadying breath.

" 'Please Mister Spock, don't bite me in the ass!' "

-END-


	2. Animal Crackers

A/N: The lovely anodyna over at livejournal has been giving out Crack Bingo cards. I have begun a line that includes such gems as "Crew turned to animals", "Amnesia", "Replicator malfunction" and "Avatar sex". I will put them all here, but as there is no time limit, updates may be slow. Many thanks to LadyFangs who convinced me McCoy should be in this story, and offered his animal avatar. As always, shout-out to my lovely beta, SpockLikesCats. I tweak, so mistakes are my own.

**Animal Crackers - Crew turned into Animals**

Log type / Logger: **Personal log / Doctor Leonard McCoy**

Stardate: How in tarnation should I know? Nobody can work the darned things out.

Location: Planet Psychon, Alpha Quadrant

Mission: Same old, same old, gettin' them to join the federation, blah blah, blah.

Well, ain't this just takin' the cake. Our hosts decided it'd be a dandy idea to turn us all into animals for an hour, _as a mark of trust in the negotiations, and in us. _I can't believe Jim agreed to such a tom-fool idea. I swear that boy's two bricks shy of a full load. So, here we all are, sittin' around a long banqueting table with fruit and wine and such like - no surprise there - when this tall being comes in, and believe me, he looks like he fell outta the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down … Oh Lord, I hope they're not telepathic…

* * *

"I thought we were to be turned into animals?" Everyone began to giggle (except Spock, naturally).

"Mr Chekov, did you not wonder why you are now staring at the edge of the table?"

"Meester Spock, I am not staring at edge of …oh!" Chekov tentatively surveyed his person. "Oh! Zees is good fun! Grrr! Grrr!" He was now about two feet tall, a rotund, white, cuddly ball of fluff, the cutest polar bear cub ever seen. He immediately jumped from his chair and scampered around the banqueting hall, climbing up the curtains, which promptly tore.

"Captain," growled Mister Spock, "where are you?"

"I'm down here Spaaawk, where I always was," squawked Jim.

"I am afraid I can only see feathers, Captain." A magnificent white cockatoo hopped up onto the table, its feathers tipped in gold.

"Ooh Keptain," growl-squeaked Polar-Chekov, "you are a cock!"

"Awwwk! I think you will find that is cockatoo, Mister," the captain's beady eyes narrowed, "but hey! This is wonderful. I can fly!" At that, he spread his magnificent wings and took a short run down the long table, lifting gently into the air…for about 0.013 seconds, before crashing back down onto the surface, barrelling along, feathers whirling and scattering glass and silverware like a miniature snow-plough. He finally came to a cawing stop inches from the end, piled up among dishes like a shattered umbrella. After a few seconds of reverse-origami Captain Cock stood, preened a few ruffled feathers, placed his wings behind his back in Spockian fashion and cleared his throat self-consciously. "Well, I think that needs waaaurk."

"Aaaar, Jim-lad." A sarcastic braying came from down the table, followed by an ominous creaking sound, splintering, a wavery "oh nooooo- eee-aw!" and:

CRASH!

McCoy-Mule sat in the remains of the chair, his grizzled and greying bottom jaw working furiously. Polar-Chekov almost exploded, he clutched onto his curtains and shook with laughter, tears glistening in his inky little eyes. McCoy-Mule pointedly rose, clopped to the corner and turned his back on the whole proceedings, ears flattened in frustrated fury, a muffled stream of mulish invective issuing from behind his big buck-teeth.

A soft thump and click of claws on the hard floor caused everyone to turn to look to Spock's place at the table. A magnificent Doberman was padding towards McCoy, its oil-black coat displaying the play of fine and terrifying musculature. Its ears were in points, and the dog's jaw was strong and square. Spock-the-dog politely asked McCoy if he had suffered any ill-effects from his abrupt union with the floor, but McCoy merely gave a grumpy shrug of his shoulder and turned further away from the rest of the crew. Spock loped back to his original chair and sat at attention beside it, like a proper guard-dog.

A soft, licky-rustle alerted the crew to Uhura's space. A massive black long-haired cat sat cleaning its fur in long, languid strokes. Polar-Chekov seemed rather put-out. "She is always ket when zees happens! I want to be ket some time! Rrrr!" His little bear face screwed up petulantly.

"Now, now Lieutenant, it has not happened that - awwwk! - often, and I personally, would rather be a polar bear than a cat. Look at your great big, cute paaaws!" The Captain, as always, was trying to defuse a situation before it arose.

Spock-the-dog surveyed Uhura-Puss with an alarming menace of purpose. The coat behind his neck became a puffed ruff, and his ear points flattened to the back of his head. Eyebrows lowered, he crouched down, strong fore-paws tensioned and ready to launch. At once, his eyes closed, the fur lay smooth and his ears softened. Opening his eyes, he moved towards a window where a single candle burned, sat in front of it and stared in doggy-contemplation growling, "contrrrrrrrol."

"Uh, Uhura, do you think you should be cleaning that much?" McCoy clattered round and surveyed the mad-hatters tea-party.

"Knots, lots of knots, lots, I must get themmmeoaw owwwut."

"Well, don't come cryin' to me when your stomach is full of hee-haw hee-haw - hair."

Uhura-Puss shot McCoy-Mule a supercilious cat-glare, leapt elegantly from the chair, walked away swinging her ass, and proceeded to clean herself on the far side of the room from Spock-the-dog.

"Vait a meenit, wherrr is Meester Scott? I do not see him and I am up high here in zee curtains."

Everyone turned to the table. Scotty was nowhere to be seen. Spock-the-dog turned from his meditation and glided towards the chairs. "He was seated here, between myself and Lieutenant grrrUhura." The chair was empty but a soft droning came from beneath the seat. Spock turned his head to the side, gently grasped a chair-leg between his massive jaws and heaved the piece of furniture a few feet away from the table.

There was a growl, meow, bray and squawk of horrified gasps.

"Meowwwster Spock, what is it?" asked Uhura, at once forgetting their animal animosity.

"I do not know."

"Well-ll-ll, well-ll-ll," neighed McCoy-Mule, "an animal even Spock doesn't know about! He kind of looks like Peter Lorre."

"Who?" they all asked in chorus.

"A Terran film actorrr of the twentieth centurrry," growled Spock.

McCoy-Mule snorted. "Smart-ass."

"I think, doctor, you will find you are the ass."

"I theenk eet is Siberian Devil." Chekov's growl-squeak sounded like Spock before his voice broke.

Uhura-Puss looked exasperated. "Don't you mean Tasmanian Devil, Meowwwster bear cub?"

"No, they are Rrrussian…from Siberia." The menagerie performed a unified eye-roll.

No-one who gazed upon the lumpen form was able to find words to placate Scotty. Lying on his side, he was perhaps a small dog, if said dog had been inexpertly shaved and headless. Where the head should have been was simply a slight bump, inset with ear-holes and large, rheumy eyes that bulged grotesquely. A flat nose - barely just nostrils - and a tiny orifice crammed with multi-directional sharp teeth like darning-needles completed its features. The skin was salt-and-pepper grey, oily and translucent, with foul patches of wiry hair strewn randomly about it, and over-run with a network of white, fatty veins. But that was not all - the creature appeared unable to stand. Two short stocky legs stuck out on its uppermost flank, whereas those below were much longer, ensuring the poor thing was marooned there on the slippery surface by a combination of its unmatched limbs and oleaginous hide.

There was more; the odour was nauseating.

A salty waft of rancid grease caught everyone's eyes, causing them to water. The tang of iron filled the room, accompanied by the sweaty, sweet smell of necrosis.

"By god, I haven't smelled anything like that since a haww-hawwg killin'. That looks like something the dog dragged under the porch and kept for a fee-haw - fee-haw – few days!"

Everyone turned to glare at the heartless mule. All except one.

Spock-the-dog was gazing on Scotty-Thing with an expression akin to love. Mesmerised, his pupils became dilated, his mouth opened, and a heavy drop of doggy-drool landed with a theatrical sploosh in front of Scotty-Thing's 'head'. A pitiful whimper brought everyone back to Scotty and they witnessed a terrified tear track down the thing's frozen face.

"SPAAAWCK! You will stand down Mister!" Captain Cock flew over (rather jerkily) and perched on the chair beside Scotty-Thing. "You are a vegetarian, Mister Spaaawck-awwwk!."

Spock seemed to snap out of it. "Indeed Captain, but I believe this body in which my consciousness currently rrresides is a carnivore."

"For God's sake Spock, why can't you just say the dog ain't vegetaria - ee-aw - n?"

"I believe I just did, doctor - grrr."

The Captain looked down upon the prone engineer. "Scotty, do you have any idea what this ah, _creature _is?"

Scotty-Thing looked heavenward, let out an enormous sigh and wailed, "aye, Cap'n."

"Well? What are you?"

"I'm a haggis sir."

Spock was the first to speak, and that was after many seconds. "Fascinating, they have turned you into a mythical creature-rrr."

"Does this look very bloody mythical to you?" Scotty was raging, albeit in a small, high-pitched and wheezy way. His voice was like nails on a blackboard. It almost sounded like…bagpipes.

"I shall ignore that emotional outburst, Mister Scott."

"I should think so an' all Mister Spock. You were gonna eat me, ye great mutt!"

Spock-the-dog flinched at the sound of Scotty-Haggis' voice, shaking his head as if to dislodge water from his ears.

"Hah! Ye dinnae like that, do yeeeeee?" The sentence ended in a mournful minor-key wheeze.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen," Kirk stretched his wings out in appeasement, "we must waaark together, we only have a short while left. Mister Spock, I suggest you get back to your meditation candle at the window and stay there until you can control your baser urges. Scotty, tell me about the haggis, why does it look so…unique?"

"Aye, well, it's ma own fault I reckon. It's a joke we make with the tourists, we tell them a haggis is a real animal. Its legs are shorter on one side coz it lives on a hillside. Yeeee are supposed to get clockwise and anti-clockwise haggis. And they look just like they do on the plate, a bit like this. Heeedeeeous, isn't it."

"Well, Mister Scott, perhaps they taste better than they look - awwwk!"

A pained whine came from the direction of the candle at the window, but Spock sat stoically in front of his improvised shrine, although there was a minute twitch to his ears.

"Aye, that they do Captain, but I dare say I won't be able to look one in the face - eh, I mean stomach one, for a good long while after this nightmare."

The remaining part of the hour crept by. Spock sat in meditation, Uhura groomed her fur, Chekov careened about the room growl-giggling wildly and McCoy groused to himself in the corner in Eyore-ish gloom. Poor Scotty lay like a sandbag, staring at the ceiling, while Kirk yapped to him about forthcoming missions, trying to take his mind off his predicament. Birds, it appeared, had a less developed sense of smell than mammals.

At last, the door opened and the Psychon healer appeared. As if by magic, everyone resumed their usual form.

The healer sat as everyone gathered themselves and took places at the table. Once everyone was seated he turned to the Captain. "Very well, we thank you for agreeing to our little experiment. If we may indulge ourselves, we wish to ask you a few final questions if we may."

The Captain gave his affirmation. "Carry on."

"What did you learn from your hour in another's body? Let us begin at my right here, with the good doctor."

McCoy cleared his throat, rubbing his chin as if he could hardly believe it had shrunk to its normal size. He looked directly at Scotty. "I learned there are those worse off than myself." The Healer nodded sagely and used a long spindly hand to indicate Uhura, whose stomach was experiencing turbulence the like of which she had never encountered.

Between indelicate burps, she answered, "I learned that beauty and grooming come at a price."

Another sage nod. "Mister Spock."

"I learned that control of my baser urges is not to be taken for granted. I apologise to Mister Scott, and Miss Uhura, in addition."

"And Mister Chekov?"

"I learned to be heppy with what I have. I vanted always to be a ket, but polar-bear is wery good also."

"The Captain?"

Jim Kirk looked to his lap. "I suppose I do rush at things without trying them first. I need to think things through. It usually works, though."

"Very well, and finally, Mister Scott."

"Ah, I learned that the Captain is a true and loyal friend. An' I promise not to make fun of tourists ever again. It's no' big, and it's no' clever."

* * *

Log type / Logger: **Personal log (supplementary) / Doctor Leonard McCoy**

Stardate: Nope, still can't work the damned things out.

Location: USS Enterprise

Mission: Psychon mission de-brief.

Why are we never naked when we regain our original form? Why is nobody ever naked? What happens to our clothes? Note to Nurse Chapel, research to commence on this phenomenon immediately. I wonder if security has a tape of Uhura hawking up that hairball in the turbo lift. She was hiccupping like she sat her ass on a live wire. That 'bout tickled me to death! Hee-haw! Hee-haw! Hee-haw! Computer, delete that last part.


	3. You say potato, I say tattie

**A/N:** Crack Bingo prompt: Avatar Sex. This chapter contains no sex, some brief but unpleasant violence, and from Scotty, inventive invective. Thanks to anodyna on LiveJournal for my bingo card. A glossary of some of Scotty's more esoteric language is at the end, in case you just don't want to know. All species mentioned are TOS/TAS. Liberties taken with Klingon TOS appearance, as they didn't have ridged skulls then. Thanks to my lovely beta SpockLovesCats. I tweak.

Scotty accidentally ends up in a sex avatar booth, and it fails to understand his Scottish accent. Swearing and rage ensues. Nothing above Sh**.

* * *

**You Say Potato, I Say Tattie**

"That's me, lass. I'm off now. She's in good hands."

Lieutenant Masters held a Padd to her chest, her expression thoughtful. "You going down with anyone, sir?"

"Naw, who'd want an old git tagging around. I just want to look about and have a whisky or two; don't even know if they have whisky on Risa. I might get a wee gift for my sister. I'm meeting up with Kyle later."

"I'll look after her sir."

"Aye, you make sure that you do."

.

In the transporter room, Kyle bestowed Scotty with his languid, calm, Australian plain-speaking opinion. "It'll do you good – you look like you haven't had your leg over in months."

"Gah, you're right there, I just dinnae... ah've no really gone _lookin' _for it before, not like this. I'll prob'ly have a dram or two and chicken oot." Scotty fiddled at his unfamiliar civvies. When he wore them he felt farther away from his girl, the _Enterprise_, and it caused a hum of background anxiety in his brain.

"There is another way you know."

"Eh? What?"

"SexVatar™ booths at transport station eleven, right behind the Ritza-Carlton hotel. They're supposed to be the mutt's nuts. You could probably _get_ a mutt there, if that was your thing."

"Kyle, you disgusting minger. Ach, I dunno, we'll see." The engineer nodded to his friend, lips set in a line. "Energize."

It was not a total surprise to Scotty that Kyle had chosen to beam him right into transporter station eleven. Furthermore, the appearance of the operator, a busty Andorian blonde, skimpily clothed, was similarly to be expected. After purring the customary greeting and tourist spiel, she offered directions to the avatar booths. He threw her a superior glare and mumbled about his friend's idea of a joke, transporting him to this particular station. Folding her arms, she gave him the practised, and universal, look of _yeah, yeah, that's what they all say._

"Strumpet", muttered Scotty under his breath. She probably didn't know that word.

A peaceful hour was spent wandering about a tourist square in the sunshine. He ate some damned good barbecued tentacles-on-a-stick, drank some extremely tasty Risan groundnut milk and listened to an Edosian play a complex, emotional melody on a kind of flat guitar. With his extra limb he was able to tune, shape chords and strum all at the same time, giving the music a pleasing woozy quality appropriate to the pleasure-planet.

At the end of the performance, the engineer sidled over to the lad. "Those three arms would be handy with the bagpipes, son. I sometimes wish I had another arm when I was playing." The musician obviously didn't know what a bagpipe was, but his eyes blinked slowly in his long, bony face, and he offered a sincere thanks.

A trawl round some jewellery stalls brought out all Scotty's insecurities about buying gifts for women. He wished Masters was here, she'd help him; she was good at things like that and liked subtle stuff. He pushed the thought away and stood solitary in the square, wondering if he should go to a bar, when out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone he wished to avoid at all costs. There she was in all her delicate, brunette glory - Lieutenant Mira Romaine.

Oh dearie dear, that hadn't gone well; not well at all. After the Zetar incident, she'd clung to him like a limpet, just as he decided he was thoroughly ashamed of his silly wee infatuation. He'd acted like a right sap. He hated hurting women, but in the end he had to. What on earth was she doing on Risa? Och well, McCoy did say she was easily led. Relieved she hadn't seen him, Scotty did what all good British men do when they don't know _what_ to do; he joined a queue.

It was a short queue, peopled (could he say that?) by beings of every shape, size and hue. From an uncomfortable, neck-cricking position he watched Mira pass by beneath lowered lashes, sagging in relief when she was out of sight. Making an efficient, military about-face he blundered into a wall... of Klingon. Their eyes locked, both sparking in a fierce flare of recognition, and Scotty's genius brain processed six thoughts in 0.7 seconds, without him even knowing it was thinking for him.

1. Oh shite, that's the bony-heided bastard that called his girl a bloody _garbage scow._

2. The Captain will have his arse in a sling if he starts anything here; he's on his last warning, the clown.

3. Hey, we're standing in the queue for the sex machine – ya beauty!

4. Booth four's just lit up its vacant sign.

5. Eyes front! Legs; forward march!

6. It's a good job he's got me, otherwise he'd be well and truly shafted.

And so, propelled by his ineptitude at letting women down gently, his fierce defence of his ship, unbelievable coincidence, and the British urge to hide in a queue, Scotty found himself in an avatar booth.

_Weird_, he thought, _I don't really know how I got here. Och well, mebbey it'll be something to tell Kyle aboot._

The room – more like a boudoir – was well furnished, with a comfortable bed and some blobby, upholstered lumps. Scotty ran his hands over the plush fabric. Perhaps they were for species who didn't have sex in a bed? A screen slid into view on one wall, displaying pictographs for different federation languages. He pressed _Federation Standard _and sank onto the bed, his fingers picking at the brocade cover, and his stomach in a knot.

A deep, mellifluous (disconcertingly male) voice addressed him.

"Please state your species preference."

"Kin I – "

"Kzinti, felinoid telepath."

A raggedy, russet, tragic six-foot feline appeared before him, attempting to smile. It was the most dispiriting thing Scotty had ever seen.

"Naw, man –"

The feline disappeared in a 'pouf', only to be replaced by...

"K'normian, humanoid."

A tall, blonde girl with a bony skull was presented in front of Scotty. She was truly cute, and smiling, showing small white teeth, but what was it with the bony heids? That one reminded him of the reason he was in this mess.

"Ohh...Kaaay... that's tha' right..."

"Kazzarite, herder race."

A _really _terrifying, huge human man with a long, black silky beard, his body hung about with pan pipes, skins and tiny pots now stood smiling at Scotty in a _totally_ inappropriate, lascivious manner. He stroked his beard as though it were the thigh of a plump, young maiden. Scotty shamed himself by scrambling back onto the bed in horror. He'd never seen, or heard of this race before.

"Is he Terran?"

"Zetaran, or Zetan; light based life-forms."

With the goat-herder gone, the boudoir pulsed with familiar lights. Scotty felt his own goat was thoroughly got. Not only was he here because he tried to avoid that soppy lass, Mira, but now they were taunting him. How can you shag a light, for God's sake? His professional composure began to fall away.

"Now, dinnae be an –"

"Denebian, humanoid species, 150 centimeters in height."

At last, finally, this was more like it; a short, shy lassie with a smooth forehead, dressed simply in roughly woven earth-tones, and with organic-looking beads strung about her neck. She reminded Scotty of his first serious girlfriend in Linlithgow, but this girl had sleek black hair that was awfully like Mira's. His girl's hair had been red, a mass of spiral curls. There was no harm in asking.

"Red head?"

"Rid of head", intoned the smooth, deep voice.

Without warning the avatar's head was roughly ripped from her shoulders. Great gouts of blood spurted from the neck, spattering the inside of the booth. After a horrifying number of seconds, the body folded with balletic grace to the floor, making a soft _whump._

Scotty was hiding on the other side of the bed, gagging. _Man, that was bowfing!_ He decided now to keep his trap firmly shut.

_What sorta sick bastard comes in here for that kinda thing! I almost keecked ma breeks there – shite! I am gonny give Kyle hell when I get up there. Stupid Aussie arsehole, landing me in this palaver …_

_Keep the heid Scotty, keep the heid._

Utterly discomposed, and burning with frustrated, white-hot rage, Scotty vaulted the bed, ready to raise merry-hell. In strained tones, he asked:

"Are you taking the piss oot o' me?"

"Species does not register in data bank."

Scotty let out a roar worthy of William Wallace himself, "Up yer frigging kilt, ya techno-tumshie!"

His face was hot and red; hairs stood in their follicles, and his fists clenched in a rage that was impotent in the most mocking sense. It was only a machine, but his patience was tested, his rope was frayed and his tether was ended. He rose, an Aberdeen Angus bull finally pulling his chain from its peg in the ground, and charging, the rhythm of his heart beating like a drum:

"I _said_: are. you. taking. the. piss. out. of. me. You great glaikit bawbag?"

"Species does not register in data bank."

"Right. Haud yer wheesht you jumped-up, superior bionic bastard. I'm right scunnered wi' you now. How kin ANYONE get a shag 'round here?"

"Species does not register in data bank."

Pushing his bottom jaw out, and narrowing his eyes Scotty moved closer, with menace, and planted his legs wide in front of the screen. Mimicking the smooth, slow movements of a seducer, he lifted the hem of his civilian shirt in a lover's strip, revealing a Starfleet belt supporting a case of micro-tools.

"Ye dinnae know who you're messin' wi' laddie. One of us is getting screwed this morning, and it's no' me. I've had the measure o' yer mechanism, and I reckon I know where _all _yer flaps are."

He couldn't be sure, but he thought the machine made a noise that sounded a lot like "eep".

"Aye, so _now _ye understand me."

Eleven point four minutes later, the chief engineer of the Federation Starship _Enterprise_ emerged from SexVatar™ booth number four looking very, very satisfied. Crowds saw his glowing face from the square and, awed, vowed to join the line. Within ten minutes, the snaking queue was forty-five meters long, and filled with the chattering classes, all saying the same thing: "Did you see that human? I've never seen such a look of satisfaction in all my life."

.

Kyle's bright face fell as he watched Scotty materialise on the transporter pad.

"What happened? I thought I was coming down later to meet you. I'm sorry about beaming you into station eleven, mate, I didn't mean it, really." Kyle's eyebrows lowered a little as he looked at his boss, and friend. "Actually, I take it back. You look like you just got the screw of your life."

"That's what it looks like lad, but it's much better that that. I _gave _the screw of my life."

Not sure how to reply, Kyle watched Scotty walk out of the transporter room, well, not so much walk, as _dance._

_._

Commander Scott peeked round the door of Engineering; the lovely Masters was checking systems, Padd in hand. It was now or never. He coughed, and she turned.

"Sir, I wasn't expecting you until this evening."

"I came back early."

Masters' brow furrowed, she looked slightly affronted. "Oh, um, it's OK, I've got her under control sir."

"I know that lass, I came 'cause I wasn't having a great time."

"I'm sorry sir."

"I wondered if ye'd like to come down tae Risa with me in the evening."

Masters' eyes became big. "Who would be in charge, sir?"

"Well, Kyle I reckon. He owes me one."

"Is this," she looked hesitant, shaky, "a date?"

"Aye lassie, it is."

The tremor left her and she smiled wide and cheerful. "In that case, sir, I'd love to."

"It's Scotty."

"Well you better start calling me Charlene. So, Risa's not your thing then, Scotty?"

"Lassie, if I told ye, ye'd say me bum was oot the windae."

"What?"

The chief engineer presented his arm for her to take. "Let's go for a wee cup o' coffee in the mess, and I'll give ye yer first Scottish vocabulary lesson."

– The End –

**Scotty's Glossary**

arse in a sling (have his/your) – give a telling off to

bum's oot the windae (window) – lying ("ass," as in your behind, is "bum" in the UK)

bawbag – scrotal sac

bowfing – nauseating (pronounced like "how", not "slow")

clown – used in Scotland to mean stupidity

dinnae - don't

glaikit – stupid, and vacant

Haud yer wheesht – be quiet

heid/heided - head/headed

keecked ma breeks – sh** my pants

kin - can

leg over - to have sex

minger – disgusting or insanitary person

palaver – a situation that causes a lot of unnecessary trouble

scunnered – fed up

shafted – screwed

tumshie – in Scotland, a turnip, in the US a rutabaga. In slang, a thick-headed idiot

ya beauty – hooray!


End file.
